The Train to Lo Wu - Jess Row [12]
Ah. So I am also subject.
Mr. Chen, she says, I think you have a story that would be interesting to many people. There has been very little work done on the experience of the blind in China. You could bring to light—
This not China. This Yau Ma Tei. Hong Kong.
If I find something, can I bring it to show you?
Maybe better not.
In the front room Lao Jiang is arguing with a customer over the benefits of wild versus cultivated ginseng; the young man has a high, nasal voice, and his Cantonese is slurred and shrill, filled with abuse. Don’t try to cheat me, old man. Look at yourself! Are you an advertisement for your products? Standing there, listening, Chen feels a slow paralysis working through his veins, as if his blood had turned to ice. We are finished, he thinks. These young people are the voice of the end.
Mr. Chen?
You very determined girl, he says, turning his head to her with an effort. I sorry I can’t more—can’t cooperate.
I’m not asking for so much, she says, her voice hard and tight. Just the truth. I want to help you find the truth of what happened.
No, he thinks. You want a prize. You want me to be your prize. He clears his throat. You understand, he says. I live here so long, very quiet, and now I am old and no memories. Only food taste good, weather hot, children make too much noise. You ask someone else.
He hears the muffled slap of a notebook closing, a pen clicking shut. Keys jingling as she picks up her bag.
Mr. Chen, she says, you are not a fool. And I am not a fool.
No. He takes a long breath. No, he says. That not the question.
Dadao Liu Shaoqi! Dadao Liu Shaoqi!
Running steps thunder in the corridor. A young man thrusts his face into the compartment. Down with Liu Shaoqi! he screams. His face is smeared with coal dust; his eyes are bloodshot. The boy’s father sits up abruptly, banging his head on the bed above. Long live Chairman Mao! Down with Liu Shaoqi!
Long live Chairman Mao, his father says weakly.
Down with Liu Shaoqi!
Down with Liu Shaoqi!
His father’s voice rises into a yell and cracks. The young man seizes him by the shoulders. Down with Liu Shaoqi! he screams. Say it! Say it! Down with Liu Shaoqi!
All during the night and into the morning the train fills with them.
Blue jackets, blue trousers, blue caps; the girls have their hair tucked up underneath. Red armbands. Red buttons and pins. Red stars. Some of them have bedrolls or satchels, but most carry nothing at all. They cluster together in clumps of eight or ten; if one is left behind she runs frantically to catch up, butting away everyone in her path. At every station they pull into, there are more on the platform. Some have their own flags: “Nanjing Revolutionary Red Guards Group Five.” Periodically they burst into song:
The east is red
The sun rises
China has brought forth a Mao Zedong!
I want a button, the boy says loudly. Mama, can I have a button? A girl passing by hears him and bends down, squeezing his arm. Stand up straight! she shouts. He stiffens, thrusting out his chest. Salute! His fingers smack his forehead.
Down with the four olds!
Down with the four olds!
Here, she says, taking a large pin from her shirt. This is from Beijing. It is in the shape of Tiananmen Gate, with Mao’s face in the middle, and the five stars above, like a crown. His mouth forms an O. The redness of it burns through his hand; he has never seen anything so saturated with color, like an eye staring at him.
Say thank you! his mother shouts from inside the compartment.
No, the girl says. Say, Long live Chairman Mao.
Long live Chairman—
Give me that, his mother says as soon as he steps inside the door. Take that wretched thing off! She sits up on the bed, fumbling with the clasp, and yanks it away, leaving a small hole in his shirt. And don’t go outside anymore.
Xiaomei, his father whispers from his bunk. It’s protection. Let him have it.
We don’t need protection, she says loudly. Unbound, her hair falls across her face like a curtain, and she pushes it aside impatiently. We haven